Page 86 of Hard Pass

“Figure out what?” he asks.

Everything.

How I’m supposed to walk back into my life after this and look my boss in the eye.

How I’m supposed to convince myself that one night with you was worth the professional suicide mission attached to it.

Instead, I say, “What this means.”

His gaze holds mine for a beat too long, before he shrugs and moves the pillow at his side. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

The words are casual, almost kind in their own way, and yet somehow, they feel like a slap.

My laugh is short and humorless as I turn my back toward him to slide the shirt over my head as if I need privacy. As if his hands and mouth hadn’t explored every inch of my body last night.

The shirt smells like him—soft cotton, clean soap, and something darker underneath that makes my pulse misfire in spite of everything.

“Got it.” I choke over the words as I bend down, reaching for my underwear to at least take them with me. “Of course.”

His eyebrows draw together. “That’s not what I meant.”

My hands tremble just enough to make me angry. “Right.”

I let out a sharp breath, dragging my hands through my hair and pulling it up as I pace, needing to abate this overload of emotions.

“Dublin—”

“At least we got it out of our system, right?” There’s an edge to my voice and I hate that I can’t smooth it out.

My comment’s met with silence. I turn around to see he hasn’t moved, still propped against the headboard, still watching me like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with me yet.

He’s too calm and it grates against my nerves already raw with uncertainty.

“Say something,” I snap. “Do something.”

He toggles his head from side to side. “Okay.”

I blink as I wait for more, but none comes. “That’s it?” I ask, incredulously. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”

He shifts, slow and deliberate, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. And when he stands, when the sheet slides off and he walks toward me in all his gorgeous naked glory—

Don’t look. Don’t cave. Eyes. Look at his eyes.

My gaze flicks up just in time to catch the edge of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Damn him.

He stops a foot in front of me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel him. The awareness. The pull. The memory that this distance didn’t exist between us hours ago.

He’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

This. This is exactly the problem.

He reaches out, cups the side of my face, and brushes his thumb over my lips. “Good morning,” he murmurs like I’m not melting down. Then he drops his hand, skimming his fingertips down my arm as he goes.

Chills chase across my skin. They’re impossible to ignore.

I huff.